“Let’s see what kind of danger made our lovely neighbors skip their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man and insist on calling that bat instead.”
Beneath the clock tower sat a closed convenience store, its rolling shutter pulled halfway down.
The one projecting the Bat-Signal wasn’t Gordon.
There were no police cars, no sirens—only an armored truck with its rear doors jimmied open, and three masked robbers stuffing cash bags into a van.
To be honest, Cole Vance was a bit disappointed.
A mere bank robbery?
He had thought he might run into Scarecrow, Mr.
Freeze, the Riddler, or someone like that.
Ever since he came to Gotham City, he handled at least five of these small-time bank heists a day.
Ah, what a wholesome local community.
The Bat-Signal was turned on by an old man wearing gas station overalls nearby.
It was a portable handheld searchlight with a homemade bat-shaped piece of black paper taped onto it.
When the light shone through the paper, it cast a lopsided bat shadow onto the wall of the clock tower.
The old man crouched behind a trash can outside the convenience store, holding the DIY searchlight in his hands.
His expression looked like he was doing the bravest, yet stupidest thing of his life.
Cole Vance was hanging upside down from the lamppost right above his head.
“Old-timer, did you make that yourself?”
The old man jumped, nearly dropping the searchlight onto the ground.
“Sp-Spider-Man?”
Cole pointed at the bat shadow on the clock tower.
“Nice craftsmanship.
But are you sure Batman is free tonight?
He might be beating people up at the docks, or maybe chasing the Penguin.
You know, Batman’s a busy guy.
Luckily, you still have a friendly neighbor.”
In this neck of the woods, how could Batman driving over be faster than him swinging over?
Cole lowered himself from the lamppost.
“Wait here.
Don’t get hit by stray bullets.”
The three robbers were stuffing the last cash bag into the van.
Cole squatted on top of the van, waited for them to stack the bags neatly, and then spoke: “Hey, you three.
Does your armored truck modification service require approval?
As far as I know, the Gotham municipal government hits illegal mods with heavy fines.
Plus, you’re not wearing your seatbelts.”
The leader reacted fastest, reaching for the pistol at his waist.
Cole’s web was faster.
Before the gun could even be drawn, his wrist was stuck to the door handle by web-fluid.
The second robber turned to run, but Cole tripped him with a low sweep.
Webbing caught his ankle, leaving him hanging upside down from the van’s side-view mirror.
The third robber raised his hands, surrendering automatically.
“Wise choice.”
Cole webbed all three of them together with the cash bags onto the side of the van, then wrote a few words on a sticky note: “Attempted ATM robbery.
Stolen funds recovered.
Suspects waiting on the vehicle for the police.
You’re welcome.”
He slapped it onto the van’s windshield.
He’d even paid for those sticky notes out of his own pocket.
The old man walked out from behind the trash can, still holding the homemade searchlight.
“Th-thank you.
I thought Batman would be the one coming…”
Cole brushed the dust off his hands.
“Well, I got here first.
And honestly, don’t you think his entrance is way too terrifying?
Popping out of the shadows with white eyes, rasping out ‘I am the night’ like sandpaper on wood—can your heart really take that?”
The old man thought about it and shook his head.
Cole nodded.
“So, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man at your service.
Free of charge.
No tips accepted.
Only smiles.”
He shot a web, swinging up to the top of the clock tower before the old man could react, disappearing into the night.
Standing at the entrance of the convenience store with the lopsided bat searchlight in hand, the corner of the old man’s mouth actually curved up in a smile.
“Spider-Man?”
It was a very steep, creepy grin.
…
The wind in Gotham at four in the morning felt like a smack from a wicked stepmother, stinging as it hit the face.
Cole squatted on the rooftop of a building next to the robbed bank, looking down at his new gear.
This suit, which had cost him a heavy sum of $360, finally stopped making him look like a pervert out in red-and-blue long johns stealing manhole covers in the middle of the night.
Why did no one compliment his cool new suit during patrol tonight?
What a cold, unfeeling bunch of people.
Those who ignore Spider-Man don’t deserve love.
Cole reached out and touched the light-gray polymer armor plate on his chest.
Though it was only a thin layer, it could at least stop point-blank small-caliber pistol rounds.
Of course, if the other guy brought a shotgun or a rifle, he’d still have to dutifully perform a sudden death scene.
…Just kidding.
With Spider-Sense, they couldn’t hit him anyway.
The night finally fell into a temporary quiet.
As Cole squatted on the rooftop in a daze, he tallied his expenses in his head.
For this outfit, he had haggled with the ghoul-looking shopkeeper at an underground materials shop for two whole hours.
Ballistic nylon fabric, five yards, $66.
Lightweight titanium alloy plates—though only a few small pieces—were bargained down to $60.
The most outrageous item was that handheld sewing machine that leaked electricity, $35.
Adding in miscellaneous polymer fibers and heavy-duty glue, his $2,000 writing fee shrank significantly in an instant.
He now had a little over $1,600 left in his pocket.
Sounds like a lot, but in a place like Gotham where even the air smelled like money, this tiny sum was barely enough for two months of compressed biscuits.
Cole had also checked Gotham’s rental websites.
Even the shittiest basement in the East End, where the wall paint flaked off like dandruff, cost $500 a month in rent.
And that didn’t even include the deposit.
The main issue was that as an undocumented person without even a legal credit record, landlords looked at him like he was a walking corpse that might die in the room at any moment.
“I can rent to you, but it’ll cost extra—a lot extra.”
Renting a place?
Impossible.
Absolutely impossible in this lifetime.
Cole recalled the attic he was living in.
Although it leaked rain, lacked stairs, and had a vent so narrow only a cat could squeeze through, its saving grace was that it was free.
In this shitty world, free was the ultimate form of justice.
Cole pulled half a piece of compressed biscuit from his pouch.
This thing was hard as a brick and tasted no different from chewing dry cardboard.
He took a bite, making his jaw ache.
Just how lacking in ambition were these American white folks to invent such anti-human food?
High oil and high calories aside, some desserts were actually sweet enough to make his Spider-Sense mistake them for a “mortal threat.”
He even suspected that the reason Gotham had so many criminals was purely because they ate too many donuts and had their brains pickled in sugar.
Just as he was about to swallow the last bite of cardboard-flavored biscuit, his ears twitched.
It was a sound coming from an alley.
Not the usual mugging screams, but a few quiet, weak dog barks.
Intermingled with the laughing and cursing of several men.
Cole sighed, stuffing the remaining half-biscuit back into his bag.
“Friendly neighborhood night shift time.
Is there really no supervillain who wants to trade a few moves with me?”
He leapt into the air, his red-and-blue figure drawing a crisp arc through the sky once more.
Pity the nearby buildings were a bit low; he almost skimmed the ground.
Deep inside the alley.
Three thugs in tattered leather jackets were surrounding a corner.
The leader was using his mud-covered boot to kick viciously at a curled-up shadow.
It was a yellowish puppy, the size of a palm, its hind leg hanging at a grotesque angle.
It couldn’t bark, only making weak, whimpering gasps through its nose.
Deeper in the alley lay the stiff corpse of a mother dog.
Her fur was matted and her stomach sunken—she had clearly given birth not long ago.
Cole landed on a nearby trash can without making a sound.
He glanced at the mother dog.
He had a slight recollection of the dog from the day of the “money shower.”
That day, the mother dog had curled up beside a dying homeless man, persistently licking his cold fingers.
When the homeless man died, she was kicked by a passing gangster, yet she still dragged her limping leg back to this alley in the end.
Now, she had died here, leaving an even more pitiable soul behind in this world.
“Hey, guys, did you pick the wrong ball for your soccer practice?”
Cole squatted on the trash can lid.
The three thugs whipped around.
“Spider-Man?
Oh, you changed into a new outfit.
This set looks pretty cool.”
The leader was just about to reach for the dagger at his waist.
“Thanks.
Seriously, you’re the first person today to compliment my outfit.”
Cole moved as fast as lightning cutting through the dark night.
A web strand accurately pinned the guy’s wrist, jerking hard.
Snap.
That was the sound of a joint dislocating.
“Felt pretty good kicking just now, huh?”
Cole delivered a sidekick squarely into another thug’s chest.
It was as if the man had been struck by a speeding truck; he flew backward and slammed heavily against the wall with a dull thud.
The third guy froze in panic and turned to run.
With a flick of Cole’s right hand, webbing wrapped around his ankle like it was alive.
“Don’t go.
Let’s talk about the Gotham Amendment to the Animal Protection Act.”
In less than ten seconds.
The three men were webbed back-to-back into a massive meatball, hung high on the lamppost.
“Help!
My ribs are broken!”
“Shut up.
I controlled my strength—there’s no way your ribs are broken.
When the police arrive, remember to tell them you flew up there because gravity glitched.”
Cole dusted off his hands, his ferocious edge vanishing into thin air without a trace.
He walked over to the corner and slowly squatted down.
Cole fell silent for a few seconds.
He reached out his hand, his movements as gentle as if he were afraid of disturbing a sweet dream.
The puppy reflexively tried to hide, but its broken hind leg made it whimper in pain.
“Shh, don’t be scared.
I’m not a bad guy.”
Cole scooped it up from the cold ground and tucked it into his arms.
Cole pulled out the remaining half of the compressed biscuit from his pouch, ground it into powder with his fingers, and fed it bit by bit into the puppy’s mouth.
The puppy tentatively licked his fingers.
It was a warm touch.
Its tail wagged weakly, like a flame about to be snuffed out in a cold wind.
Cole stared at that swaying tail, suddenly feeling his nose go a bit pricklish.
He looked left and right, confirming there were no living people in the alley besides the three half-dead trash bags hanging on the lamppost.
And the three on the lamppost were being blown by the wind so they could only see the head of the street opposite, not this side.
Mm, great, nobody watching.
Cole pulled up the lower half of his mask, leaned down, and kissed the puppy’s head several times in quick succession.
Not satisfied with one round, he kissed it again.
Heheh.
“Listen, little guy, you’re not allowed to tell anyone about today,” Cole threatened viciously.
“If anyone finds out Spider-Man kissed a dog, I’ll turn you into a hot dog, got it?”
The puppy seemed to understand, or maybe it didn’t, but it just poked out its small pink tongue and gently licked Cole’s chin.
Looking at the dog in his arms, Cole began pondering the most practical problem.
“I need to give you a name.”
He stroked his chin, lost in thought.
“Call you Wangcai?
No, nobody in this neck of the woods understands that; sounds too country.”
“Call you Wade?
Forget it, I actually kind of like him.”
A thought suddenly flashed through Cole’s mind.
He remembered the giant Bat-Signal he’d seen from the clock tower earlier.
He remembered that big black bat who always hid in the shadows, looking at everyone like they owed him five million dollars.
“Got it.”
Cole looked down at the puppy, an extremely dark-humored smile tugging at his lips.
“Your name is Bruce.”
“This name is guaranteed to open doors in Gotham, no doubt about it.”
He paused, feeling that this name was truly a work of pure genius.
“Bruce, from now on, you and I are the greatest duo in this shithole.”
The puppy seemed very pleased with the name, wagging its tail even harder than before.
Ten meters away, in the shadow atop the clock tower.
A tall figure blended seamlessly into the darkness.
Bruce Wayne—or rather, Batman—was silently observing everything in the alley.
He had originally followed the Bat-Signal here, only to stumble upon this scene.
Suit upgraded.
He recorded rapidly on his mobile terminal: Ballistic nylon material, custom non-industrial titanium alloy plating, obvious hand-stitched seams.
This meant the boy had no large organization supporting him behind the scenes; he was improving his equipment bit by bit with his own hands.
Then, he saw the boy kiss the dog’s head.
And he heard the name.
It was a bit far, but remember, Bruce Wayne could read lips.
“Bruce.”
In that instant, Batman’s eye twitched.
Concealed under his cowl, no one could see how priceless the Dark Knight’s expression was right now.
It was a complex reaction somewhere between speechlessness, absurdity, and a feeling hard to put into words.
Under the “Spider-Man” file on his terminal, he added a new tag:
Threat level: Downgraded.
Notes: Severely lacking in social common sense, exhibits strong tendency for dry humor/snark.
Recommend continued monitoring of psychological health.
Batman backed away noiselessly, blending into the darkness like a drop of water dissolving into the ocean.
Sitting at the bottom of the alley, Cole had no idea that his “mighty deed” had just been witnessed full-on by the very target of his usual teasing.
Using web-fluid, he carefully immobilized the puppy’s broken hind leg.
Though his technique was unrefined, it was sturdy.
“Let’s go, Bruce.
Time to take you back to our leaky mansion.”
He stood up and looked back at the mother dog’s corpse.
There was no dirt here, nor a shovel.
He found a relatively clean piece of cardboard among the debris in Gotham and laid it over the mother dog.
Then he moved her body to a corner sheltered from the wind.
“Even though it doesn’t do much…” Cole murmured softly.
Holding Bruce in his arms, he shot out a web strand and soared into the air.
The red-and-blue figure vanished into the night.
Cuddled inside the suit, Bruce absorbed what little warmth this world had to offer.
As Cole swung through the air, he continued to mutter under his breath.
“Naming a dog Bruce…
that shouldn’t count as insulting an officer, right?”
“Ah, who cares.
It’s not like he knows.”
“Besides, vigilantes aren’t even on the payroll…”
In the distance, a new Bat-Signal lit up, shining against the clouds like a silent answer to his question.